Khajiit 1
Lower Wind Month — Day 25
In the years that followed the pursuit of his grand ambition, there were four occasions when he considered abandoning his plans, though never once out of his own desire.
Twice did fear grip him, as ancient creatures soared the skies above his hidden bases. Yet through persistence, and, to his eternal shame, prayers to the Great Six— whom he had thought he had long forsaken— did those ancient beings either fail to notice, or simply choose to ignore, his machinations…
That had been his greatest terror to date, for few survived a true encounter with dragons. Those who did were scarcely considered creatures of mere mortality.
In his homeland— the accursed Slane— many such individuals, capable of felling dragons, were rumoured to serve under the banners of the Scriptures, with none more feared than the Blacks. Yet, through the whispered words of Zurrernorn's ancient leader, it was said there were beings mightier still, rumored to be descendants in whose veins coursed the blood of gods.
Khajiit, though he respected their leader, was rather skeptical of this information. He scarcely believed in the existence of these Scriptures, having yet to encounter them, whether directly or by stealth.
Yet the prevalence of their existence was a frequent topic among the ill-driven denizens of the under-market. Thus, Khajiit remained ever vigilant and guarded.
However, such topics diverged from his initial point— the overgrown reptilians that had haunted his skies.
...surviving that indirect encounter had awakened within him the need for foresight, driving him to prepare contingencies and backups for when matters took an ill turn. With the aid of his glorious master, who had never once doubted his efforts, Khajiit established five new secret bases— and one more, unreported to the cult.
That venture had extended the original deadline of his grand ritual by two additional cycles, a lament he bore as the years passed without further interruption or intervention. That was, until five moons ago, when a great wave of corruption stirred within the Forest of Tob.
Dangerous creatures emerged— false draconics such as drakes and wyverns, along with other beasts whose very existence posed a threat not only to him but to the thousands of precious sacrifices he had selected for his purpose.
Khajiit once more sought the aid of his glorious master, yet the ancient lich was absent to ease his distress. As was to be expected, the necromancer found himself compelled to broker a deal with one of his fellow Apostles— one with a disquieting desire for the holy arts.
Apostle Phorntaine—The Grafter.
From him, Khajiit received a collection of studies concerning the creation of unique undead beyond mere dark casting— the Art of Undead Creation. Unfortunately, this advanced form of necromancy demanded extensive knowledge of biology, the theories of mana channels, and a considerable degree of expertise in surgery.
Each of these pursuits would demand decades of dedication and commitment. Yet, as one who aspired to ascend to lich-hood, Khajiit could see only the advantages of the bargain.
It also helped that the knowledge exchanged included ward matrices, which would serve him well against the beasts…and whatever had awakened in the Wither Valley further within Tob.
However, for all this, Khajiit traded in the secrets of the churches—secrets that exacted a heavy toll from him, safeguarded as they were by a holy oath. His youth, sacrificed for the divine rituals the church had bestowed upon him when he was but a naive boy, shattered by the death of his mother.
With this bargain, he had summoned forth ten Skeletal Dragons and more powerful forms of corpse-walkers. Undead reinforcement had become his to command, and he focused the art upon his false dragons, crafting creatures that posed a formidable challenge even to Re-Estize’s finest warriors and magi alike.
Thus, it was no wonder that he was utterly bewildered by the words of his foolish disciple, who reported the fall of the expeditionary horde— a force of nearly fifteen thousand undead— guarded by four greatly enhanced Skeletal Dragons and commanded by eight disciples, dispatched to the villages far south of the Free Lands to gather additional Negative Energy for his grand ascendancy.
Khajiit, clad in his crimson robes and reduced to an ancient body, approached the disciple slowly, his staff tapping lightly against the stone floor of the undercroft.
"You mean to tell me that thousands of my undead, including my finest creations, were all laid low in less than twelve hours?" He demanded of the foolish servant, who cowered and trembled beneath his unamused glare. "Answer me, damn you!"
"Y-yes, M-master Khajiit."
The necromancer sent forth a pulse of intent through the Death Orb clasped in his hand. A heartbeat later, the clawed limb of his false dragon descended with a mighty crash beside where the disciple knelt in submission.
"Do you think me daft, disciple? Do you truly believe I would swallow such preposterous claims? Do you understand the kind of power one would need to summon to lay waste to those undead?"
The brown-robed fool looked upon him with fright, "B—but, Master Kha—Khajiit. W—what of the sev—severed connection be—between the Death Orbs?"
He scoffed, turning away, disgusted by the moronic disciple who would so easily leap to extremes.
"Get out of my sight, fool," he ordered coldly. "And inform your brethren that we shall be changing bases, sending more than half of the hordes in scattered waves toward the settlements, both near and far."
The disciple made himself scarce immediately, and Khajiit’s face twisted into so much anger and frustration.
Another interference, another who would dare deny him his dreams. Though he knew it to be folly, as time and time again his pleas and efforts had been met with indifference, the former clergyman could not help but wonder if the Great Six themselves worked to hinder his goals.
A mere moon from ascension, and all the misfortune that had loomed finally descended.
Through dark instincts, Khajiit sent forth a pulse of corrupted aura, drawing upon the excess sealed within his Death Orb. Harmless without a proper channel— for such was the fate of unbound mana— his display served only to make the items within the cave tremble.
How Khajiit longed to bring death and misery upon these new fools who fancied themselves heroes. Yet he refrained, keeping his focus sharp upon his plans. He could not afford to betray his ambition for any mere inconvenience.
No, he would attain his immortality first. Only then would he be so inclined to bring true wisdom to all those lesser beings who dared stand against him.
Yet still, he pondered who these new interlopers might be. It could not be the hunter-warriors of the Free Lands, nor any of the miscreants who preyed upon the foolish villagers and peddlers seeking favor from them. No, those were far weaker folk, ones who would struggle— nay, even succumb— against a dozen of his lesser undead.
These must be individuals who could rival the Roses of Rigrit in might…
Khajiit settled into his chair and swept aside the parchments on which he had penned his findings and theories.
…yet such individuals were a rare breed, especially in Re-Estize and Baharuth. As he began the more bloody stages of his plans, he took great care to isolate the free villages, thwarting any attempts to seek aid not just from the Fortress City, but from all quarters.
Even efforts to unite in arms were methodically thwarted, which made this clear interference all the more irksome to him.
The necromancer suspected treason within his ranks. Such betrayal would at least explain the severed connection to the main Death Orbs that the foolish disciple had been so fixated upon.
"Yet that would not explain the loss of my Skeletal Dragons." He frowned in thought.
The disciples, ambitious as they were, lacked the skill to wrest control from him or even challenge his false dragons, even with the support of the hordes. No, few among the lesser cultists could cast even a proper spell of the 1st-tier, and so they looked to Apostles such as himself for favors and advancement.
This was the work of a foreign party, Khajiit could feel it deep within his veins. Perhaps it could even be the thrice-cursed elves who made their dwelling within Tob.
But then he paused, shaking his head in frustration. "I’m being too unreasonable. Those lot are inner-dwellers, reclusive by nature. It’s rare enough for any of them to leave their forest homes, let alone meddle in affairs beyond their own borders."
Ever since he had made his move to this land— nearly a decade past— he had seen fewer than twenty of the false humans venture forth from their hidden enclaves. Four of those brazen creatures had been captured by his hand, and from their trembling lips, he had pried the locations of their homes. He had thought to use them as his primary sacrifices, for they were a reclusive folk, nigh-forgotten by the world at large.
Yet, when he sought their dwellings, he found them to lie deeper within the forest, beyond even the borders guarded by the great creatures and the Basilisk Hills.
Had he been a greater necromancer, perhaps he would have still opted for them. But Khajiit was not such, and he doubted even if he was, he could weather the true terrors of Tob.
A weary sigh left his lips, the weight of his betrayal settling heavily upon him. He wondered, as he so often did in these recent days, if his mother— once revived and among the living again— would appreciate the sacrifices he had made for her?
Soul taint and the abandonment of his humanity.
The Gods, he knew, would bar him from Paradise for his actions, regardless of his motivations. Not only had he failed to exalt humanity, he had failed to add to their numbers, even while he had still possessed the desire for such debauched urges.
"That elven capture…mayhaps if I had been bolder..."
No, laments were a waste of time, besides, he had fetched gold aplenty for those exotic elves.
He decided to ignore the significance of his sins and instead focused on the Death Spiral Ritual.
With a reach to one of the skulls hanging from his neck, he summoned forth the entire ritual formation of the Spiral. In the years since finishing its preparations— twice over— he had turned his attention to the ritual itself, seeking ways to modify it further.
This desire was motivated by his unwillingness to make a direct enemy of the Slane. In the past, when the ritual had been performed, an entire city had been transformed into a nesting ground for the dead, and it was only because the inhabitants of that city were beastmen that the Theocracy had chosen to overlook the nature of it.
However, bringing such devastation to one of the human nations neighboring them would surely draw the ire of the Inquisition upon him. The faith-blinded fools would not be so forgiving, and thrice more so if they were to discover his traitorous identity.
"Compromises. Setbacks." He whispered, gazing at the medium that would unleash a wave of concentrated miasma and eager soul harvesting. "After I ascend and gather more strength, I shall no longer be a victim of such reservations."